Hail to thee, thou holy herb, That sprung on holy ground! All in the Mount Olivet First wert thou found. Thou art boot for many a bruise, And healest many a wound; In our Lady’s blessed name, I take thee from the ground.[*] [* This metrical spell, or something very like it, is preserved by Reginald Scott in his work on Witchcraft.] Edward observed with some surprise that even Fergus, notwithstanding his knowledge and education, seemed to fall in with the superstitious ideas of his countrymen, either because he deemed it impolitic to affect scepticism on a matter of general belief, or more probably because, like most men who do not think deeply or accurately on such subjects, he had in his mind a reserve of superstition which balanced the freedom of his expressions and practice upon other occasions. Waverley made no commentary, therefore, on the manner of the treatment, but rewarded the professor of medicine with a liberality beyond the utmost conception of his wildest hopes. He uttered on the occasion so many incoherent blessings in Gaelic and English that Mac-Ivor, rather scandalized at the excess of his acknowledgments, cut them short by exclaiming, “Ceud mile mhalloich ort!” (that is, “A hundred thousand curses on you!”) and so pushed the helper of men out of the cabin. After Waverley was left alone, the exhaustion of pain and fatigue—for the whole day’s exercise had been severe—threw him into a profound, but yet a feverish sleep, which he chiefly owed to an opiate draught administered by the old Highlander from some decoction of herbs in his pharmacopœia. Early the next morning, the purpose of their meeting being over, and their sports damped by the untoward accident, in which Fergus and all his friends expressed the greatest sympathy, it became a question how to dispose of the disabled sportsman. This was settled by Mac-Ivor, who had a litter prepared, of “birch and hazel-grey,”[*] which was borne by his people with such caution and dexterity as renders it not improbable that they may have been the ancestors of some of those sturdy Gael who have now the happiness to transport the belles of Edinburgh in their sedan-chairs to ten routs in one evening. When Edward was elevated upon their shoulders he could not help being gratified with the romantic effect produced by the breaking up of this sylvan camp.[25] [* On the morrow they made their biers Of birch and hazel grey. _Chevy Chase_.]